Here is the video reading:
(the post by Wil Wheaton can be read here, which as it turns out he was quoting Jenny the Bloggess
from her post about depression which I had also read at the time and found poignant. So there's this whole circle of thought I went round without even realizing it, Woot!)
In the supermarket seafood aisle
where emotions run high
because apparently the little curls
of frozen vapor
twirling up from the big display
have some field of draw
on the burning in me,
I am staring,
have forgotten what I wanted
in the overwhelming ubiquity
that is bereaved fish.
There one lay, close to me,
snugged on its bed of shaved ice
staring up with one dead eye.
'I am the sole of discretion'.
It entices me to confess.
'You look like you might need
a friend' it says.
I peer deeper into the glass jelly orb
of what it once saw with
and I hesitate,
open my mouth, feel the budding stutters
of my hem
as though this were a therapist's office,
what should I say
where to begin.
'Just begin with' he stops as though
he were thinking,
'begin with where it began'.
That's difficult to say, beginnings
can be so gradual.
I am aware of people passing
oblivious of my intimacy here,
wandering from bin to bin, choosing this
type of cheese, that package of
It's nothing, really, I say.
He continues to watch me,
like someone patient, waiting for what is
clearly lingering in the corners of my mouth
and straining against the muscles of my face.
Never has the glass between me and my food
felt so transparent and unforgiving.
I shift my weight, left foot to right,
and avert my eyes from his omniscient fix.
I know I'm called out for living dead
by this ectothermic corpse but
if I had the words to describe
what makes me recede from pain into pain,
if I had a sense of where my organs
go when hiding from the great emotional lie,
I'd spit it out, gagging for air, if I could.
I can't, I whisper.
'Very well' he says and I swear
I can see his shoulder shrug.